


Traces and Tracks

by Robin_Fai



Series: This Tangled Briar [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parental Fred Thursday, Protective Fred Thursday, Violence, Whump, the wrath of ThursDad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Morse thinks he's finally moved on from the relationship that left him scarred.He's starting out on a new path with Peter and things seem good.Then a figure from his past returns and everything goes horribly wrong.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Male Character(s), Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Series: This Tangled Briar [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665553
Comments: 68
Kudos: 75





	1. A door, once closed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginationtherapy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/gifts).



> Well hello there! I promised myself that I'd finish the longer fic I'm working on before writing this. It's nearly done but slow progress so I _was_ holding out. Then the world got bad and I've not left the house for nearly a month now and my brain demanded this mush. So here we are.
> 
> This one is for Imaginationtherapy - because our brains work in worryingly similar ways.

_His blood welled up from the cut to his side, overflowing the edges, saturating the once pale material of his shirt. Such a small cut. When did it happen? Why was it bleeding so much? He looked up into the eyes of the man he loved. They were cold and remorseless. Why did he deserve this again? He can’t seem to remember._

Morse woke up gasping for air and clutching at his ribs. The form sleeping beside him shifted and he instinctively flinched back.

“Morse?” A voice in the darkness called him. It was familiar, yet not what he was expecting, he couldn’t place it. “Morse? Are you OK?” 

_Peter. It’s Peter’s voice._ The realisation grounded him. The air worked its way into his lungs finally, clawing at his throat on its way down.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Sorry.” He rolled onto his back and tried to make out the ceiling in the dim light that was filtering through the curtains.

He felt a gentle touch. Glancing to the side he could just make out Peter next to him in his bed. He had reached out a hand and touched it to his own, just the fingertips, lightly resting on his skin.

“Dreams?” Peter didn’t ask if they were bad. He didn’t have to.

“Mmm,” he mumbled in assent. 

Peter’s fingers interlaced with his and he gently squeezed his hand. He didn’t ask if he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t press him into a smothering hold. Peter just lay there, holding his hand, and listening in case he chose to speak.

He didn’t really know how they had come to this. He didn’t really know what _this_ was. They didn’t talk about it. 

That day, the day after he’d broken down, they had agreed to take things slow. And they had. They had taken everything one step at a time, until they ended up here, sharing a bed almost every night.

Most days they went to Peter’s apartment. It was so much nicer than the basement Morse lived in. They would share a meal, then Morse would stretch out on the sofa, head propped on Peter’s lap, and he would read while Peter watched television. Or they would talk. It still surprised him how much they had to talk about for all their disparate personalities and interests.

Morse still went to the Thursday’s for dinner once a week, and he had choir on Wednesday. On those nights he would come home to his flat to find Peter reading the paper in his armchair, or sometimes already asleep in his bed if he was late. He liked those nights best because it meant he got to wake Peter up in a good way.

The first time he had awoken from a nightmare of Joseph hurting him he had lashed out when an unexpected hand had tried to still his panic. For his concern, Peter had won a black eye he had to try and explain away to the Inspector. 

Morse had thought the shame would eat him up, but Peter had made a joke of it, and taken care never to startle him when he woke suddenly from then on. 

Things were awkward, at least on his part, for several days after the event, but then he had woken in the early hours to find Peter curled in on himself, silently crying. It put things in perspective. Whatever he had gone through, Peter’s history was far worse.

He had hesitated that first night, not wanting to embarrass him, but when it happened again he found himself instinctively wrapping a protective arm around Peter’s waist and curling himself around him, as if he could shield him from the ghosts that plagued him. Peter had pressed himself back into the warmth of the contact, and his breathing had steadied.

Sometimes, in the safety of the darkness, they would talk. Or one would talk and the other listen. Their stories saturated the spaces around and between them until they were diffused, lightened, made easier to bear with their shared strength. 

They had told each other so much, given each other so much, and yet the one thing their words never stretched to was what they had become, what they meant to each other. 

When Morse looked at Peter, he knew deep in his soul that this was the only person he had ever truly felt whole with. He knew that Peter was his world now, but he didn’t know how to find the words to say it, and he was terrified that his feelings would be un-reciprocated, so he chose silence as the easy path.

They stumbled on like that for weeks until one night, as Peter pressed him past all logic and reason with his lips, and his hands ( _those damned wonderful hands_ ) he found himself saying it (well, gasping it actually).

“I love you. Oh… fuck… but I love you, Peter.” 

Peter stopped what he had been doing and smiled down at him, the warmth in his smile better than any summer’s day.

“You really mean that?”

“I didn’t mean to say that. You confused my by doing-” his words were cut off in a gasp as Peter resumed what he’d been doing. Morse was lost to his senses then for quite some time and didn’t have a chance to regret his unplanned honesty. 

Later, as they lay in each others’ arms, Peter drew him closer for a moment and whispered into his ear.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

“Idiot? That’s the worst confession of love I’ve ever received.” He grumbled back, even as his heart soared. He pressed his face closer to Peter’s.

“Ditto, Mr. ‘I didn’t mean to say that’. I’m going to trust you were sincere, and it wasn’t just some product of my skills in making you all naked and needy.” 

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I meant it. I do love you, Peter.”

Peter kissed him as his only reply, and for one blissful night Morse thought he had found real happiness.

It couldn’t last of course. His luck never did. In the end it didn’t even last a full day.

\-----

The knock at the door startled him as it always did. He wondered if he’d ever really feel comfortable in his own home again. He had come a long way in the months since being back in Oxford, but still he felt on edge whenever he was alone. It wasn’t so bad at Peter’s place. 

As he wandered over to the door he idly daydreamed about moving in with Peter. Surely it was the next step now they had said they loved each other. That made it sound more like a checklist than a romance. He shook his head at his ridiculous train of thought and opened the door without checking through the spyhole for the first time since living there. It was a mistake he could only regret.

\-----

Peter was frustrated. The end of his shift had long since come and gone. Morse had the afternoon off for an appointment. Peter had wanted to be at home by now, doing unspeakable things to him. He ducked his head to hide the colour that rushed to his face when he thought of the previous evening. 

_Morse had said he loved him._

He’d begun to fear that Morse didn’t feel the same way as him. It was obvious he was attracted to him, that much there was no hiding, but his silence over his feelings had made Peter worry that the physical was all it extended to for Morse. 

Of course, he had known he loved Morse for a long time before they had actually got together. He knew it from before he even knew Morse could be attracted to men. When Morse had let slip his ex was a man it had filled him with hope, even as he had tried not to let his fury at what the bastard had done consume him.

His mind wandered from the files he was trying to get in order before he could leave for the day. He loved how Morse went from uptight and righteous when he was working, to warm and gentle when they were together. In both situations it was Morse’s passions that drove him, and Peter loved both sides of that whole more than he had ever expected. He had never known anyone with such integrity written in their veins. 

They both had their scars of course. Each was indelibly marked by their past. He had thought Morse the sort to bury his at first. He had seen all too often the way Morse tried to ignore the things that hurt him, as though it was a crime to feel pain, as though the blows inflicted on him by life were his own fault, as though he deserved it somehow. 

That hadn’t changed, and Peter was sure he could spend a lifetime trying to make the idiot see that he deserved better. He had thought that might be a sticking point, the thing that would keep them apart. He had spent years trying to prove that he was more than just a collection of lines scored across his skin, that he hadn’t been to blame, that he could live a life unshaped by his pain. To be with someone who believed so absolutely in a culpability that wasn’t their own had felt impossible. 

But then he had seen that tattoo. 

The idea that Morse of all people had a tattoo of a briar rose on his back still made him smile whenever he remembered. It would seem completely out of character to those that only saw the imperious part of Morse. He had seen now just how vulnerable he could be, how gentle, and how kindness underwrote so many of his actions, for all that they were often misconstrued as self-importance. So it made a strange kind of sense for this man of paradoxes to wear a contradiction on his skin.

That tattoo had changed everything. It had told him that Morse could move forwards as well as lingering in the past. It said that he could acknowledge what he had suffered and try to grow beyond it. Peter had known then that for all his talk, and dedication to, taking things slow, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with Morse.

“You’ll never get things done staring off into space like that.” Thursday interrupted his thoughts, making him jump. “Daydreaming of your new girl?”

“Who said I have a girl?” He sniped back, annoyed at having been caught.

“The daft expression on your face just now.” The Inspector said with a huff of laughter. “Go on, push off if you’ve got better places to be. You can finish those up in the morning.”

Peter tried to hide the colour that rose in his face. “I’m almost done. I’ll finish up.” He turned back to the files and began sorting through them again. 

Thursday, to his frustration, lingered. “So, she got a name then?”

“Who?” 

“Your girl. I’m assuming it’s more serious than your usual flings from the way you’ve been.” Trust Thursday to have noticed. He hoped he hadn’t been so transparent that everyone could tell. 

“I’ve not got a girl.” It wasn’t a lie. Morse was very much not female.

Thursday snorted. “Sure. Well, see you in the morning then.” He made his way out of the office with a wave back at Peter.

\-----

The shock at who was on the other side of the door tore through Morse. How was Joseph here? _Why_ was Joseph here? The man he had once loved gave him a benevolent smile and said his name before walking in, uninvited. Morse was left still holding the front door. He closed it out of habit and turned around to face his former lover. His stomach turned at the casual way he was wandering about his flat. 

He tried to understand the feelings racing through him as he looked at the man who had almost killed him. Surely he couldn’t still love him after everything that had happened? He didn’t think he did, but there was something there, some kind of warped connection between them.

Morse cleared his throat and tried to speak with a confidence he didn’t feel. “What are you doing here, Joseph?” 

Joseph's face contorted into a funny sort of smiling frown, as if Morse’s question were laughably confusing. “I was worried about you of course! And looking at this place I had good reason.”

Whatever retort he might have made died as his lungs constricted. Had Joseph really worried about him? He had wondered that so many times since the day he had got out of hospital and run from their shared home with only a fraction of his belongings.

“How have you been?” There was no concern in that voice. It sparked the small flame of anger that Morse harboured for what had passed between them back then.

“Like you care. I’d be dead if I hadn’t called an ambulance, and I’ve not seen you since that day.”

Joseph broke eye contact. He looked to the floor, hands in his pockets, and something like shame marked his features.

“I am truly sorry about that. You must know that. I never meant to… it’s just you… the things you said...” Joseph rubbed his forehead with the side of his hand. It was a simple gesture, but one Morse had come to fear. Without realising it, he stepped back instinctively. “If you hadn’t said those hurtful things, Morse, then we would still have been happy now.”

Morse tried to remember what they had been arguing about before it all went so wrong. Maybe he had said something bad. He couldn’t remember it at all, but his mouth was so prone to running away with him before he had a chance to think that it was entirely possible. The thought that this situation might be his own fault left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Look, Joseph, I am sorry if I said something that hurt you, but you nearly killed me.”

“And I’ve apologised for that.” Joseph snapped. He seemed to realise his error because he took a breath and when he spoke again his tone was softer, pleading. “Please, Morse, you can’t tell me that things have really changed can you? We love each other. We were meant to be together. Come home now, please.”

For the briefest of moments Morse considered it. Perhaps if he could just learn not to say such awful things then they would be alright. Perhaps there was a way to get back that life they had built together.

But then Joseph ran his hand over the record sleeve that was laid on the table in front of him, and Morse thought of Peter. Suddenly he felt sick. How could he even have considered going with this man? He didn’t love him any more. Looking at Joseph now, the confidence that he would obediently follow him home despite what he had done written in every part of his posture, he wasn’t sure if he had ever loved him. 

Love was something far simpler than the convoluted tangle of feelings he had for Joseph. For him, love was the way Peter held his hand when he’d had a nightmare, the record player he had bought for him, the peace in their shared evenings together. 

“No.” He said eventually. “No, I won’t come home with you. This is my home now, my life, and you’re not a part of that.”

“What?” Surprise and anger were quick to fill Joseph’s face. “You are kidding me, right?!”

“No, I’m not.” He was surprised how calm he felt. He finally felt like he had found the other end of the tunnel. He could see the light. “I’d like you to leave now, Joseph.”

Joseph flew into an all too familiar rage. “You’re nothing without me. Nothing! You think anyone will want you now? You’re damaged goods, Morse.”

“Actually, I’ve found someone else. He loves me. Really loves me.” He bit back, fighting the urge to shout.

“Do you honestly believe that? Whoever this idiot is, they’re just using you. Or it’s a pity thing.” Joseph sneered. Morse knew it wasn’t true, but the part of him that believed he wasn’t worthy of someone like Peter latched onto those words. The queasiness he had felt before returned.

“Please leave.” Morse tried to keep the stutter from his voice.

“I’m not leaving without you. We’re meant to be together. You’re mine. I’m the only person that will ever love you.” 

Joseph’s words buried themselves deep in his soul, but Morse held onto the thought of Peter and tried to keep his resolve.

“Get out. Now!” He marched to the door and wrenched it open. 

That was his second mistake. 

He should never have turned his back on Joseph. The next thing he knew a hand had wrapped itself around his face, a cloth pressed over his mouth. _Don’t breathe in!_ His panicked thoughts demanded, even as he was slammed into the edge of the door. His head impacted with the solid wood and he stifled a scream at the tearing pain. It was enough. The chloroform smothered his airways. Everything became fuzzy and drifted away from him like smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got most of this done but progress got slow so I decided to go for it and start posting to motivate me to reach the end. Updates should be fairly regular. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it and are all keeping safe!


	2. Pitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably apologise for the emotional roller-coaster of the chapter ahead. I should. But I won't.

Peter arrived at Morse’s flat over an hour late in the end. He had stopped at the chippy on the way as an apology for being late (and because there was no way to really ‘cook’ at Morse’s place). He shivered slightly in the cold spring air as he took the steps down to the basement two at a time. As he reached his hand out to knock on the door a sense of unease settled over him. Something was wrong.

He hesitated but then knocked anyway. It was probably just his imagination. When there was no reply, he knocked again. Then again. And again. The unease he had felt before solidified into a genuine worry. 

He shuffled around and tried to see in through the windows. Even with the curtains drawn he could make out that there was no light on inside. Was Morse out? Had he gone somewhere after he was late? He hadn’t called to say he’d be late. Maybe he should have called. What if Morse had gone to his place?

He hurried back across town to his own flat. There was no sign Morse had been there. He had given him a key a few weeks before so it wasn’t like he would be waiting outside, but the other man wasn’t subtle. If he had been in then there would be a trail of evidence, half drunk mugs of tea, a discarded paper, an open book. 

Where had he gone? Peter didn’t want to worry. It was probably some misunderstanding and Morse had made other plans and just forgotten to let him know. He tried to resist the urge to call the Inspector to ask if Morse was with them. Thursday knew that he and Morse got along a lot better now, but he doubted he realised they were even friends, let alone more. They put on a careful act whenever they were outside of their own homes. 

Peter opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass to try and settle his nerves. He picked at the now cold fish and chips but didn’t really feel hungry. He spent the rest of the evening calling Morse’s flat every half hour and getting steadily more drunk and scared. 

By the time he realised it had gotten past midnight he was feeling distinctly sick. After their mutual confessions of love of the previous evening he was sure that Morse wouldn’t do something like this. Either he really had forgotten he had plans with Peter and was with some unknown friend or other, or something had happened to him.

Eventually, Peter couldn’t take it any more. He pulled on a coat and scarf and marched as fast as he could without looking suspicious across town to Morse’s basement. 

The spare key was hidden where it always was. He was now cursing himself for not letting himself in when he’d come by earlier. He should have trusted his instincts. If something had happened he had lost precious time.

It was dark inside the flat when he went in. He turned on the lights, fearing what he might find, but there was nothing. No Morse passed out on his floor, no signs of a struggle, no note explaining where he had gone. He closed the front door and checked the bedroom and bathroom but again found nothing. There was an empty mug on the coffee table, and a book resting on the side by the armchair. Perfectly normal for Morse. Nothing was out of place, yet everything seemed wrong. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to think like Morse. What was it in this room that was making him so concerned. Then it came to him; the record. There was a record on the player. Morse would never leave the record there when it had finished. The only time he took real care with his possessions was his record collection. 

That was it. Could he really report Morse missing because he wasn’t home at 1am and had left a record out? No, he would have to wait until morning. He settled into Morse’s armchair and tried to find a glimmer of hope that Morse would wander in sometime before morning and this would prove to be just some misunderstanding.

\-----

Morse came around in a pitch black space. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision but there was no difference between closed and open. The panic and disorientation the engulfed him was immediate and all encompassing. He was leant against a cold, damp, wall. He tried to move but found his hands bound tightly with something that rubbed at his skin. _Rope? Cord?_ His fingers were tingly, suggesting that although the bonds were too tight, they hadn’t been in place too long.

He tried to slow his breathing and think. What had happened? _Joseph,_ his memory supplied, _Joseph came to his flat._ He remembered the knock to his head. He ought to find out how bad that was. His feet weren’t bound, so with some wriggling that caused the ropes to chafe sharply he managed to get his hands in front of him. 

Next, Morse started cataloguing how he felt and what he could learn about the dark space he was in. The cut to his head stung, and there was an ache behind it that said it was also badly bruised, but it didn’t feel like it was bleeding any more. His arms, back, and neck ached, suggesting he had been in an awkward position for some time. Beyond that, he was cold and there was a creeping dampness in his clothing from the walls and floors.

The walls were slimy, but flat, and the floor beneath him felt like it was compacted earth. It was bitterly cold. So, he was probably in a cellar of some kind. 

There had been a cellar like this in Joseph’s cottage in the country that they had sometimes visited on the weekend. Joseph had shown him the cellar as a curiosity, but said it wasn’t in use because it was damp. Could that be where he was? It would make a certain amount of sense. Unless Joseph had sold the place of course, or he was somewhere else entirely.

With some difficulty he got to his feet and traced the walls with his bound hands. The size of the space, and the steep concrete steps he found in one corner, certainly tallied with the cellar they’d had, but without any light to see by it was impossible to tell.

It was even harder to climb the stairs, they were slippery, and there was no rail on the open side to catch him if he fell. He carefully climbed as close to the top as possible, his fears confirmed as his up-reaching hands touched something before he had gone that far. The way in was through a trapdoor of heavy wood and it wouldn’t budge so presumably was locked from the outside. There was no way he could overpower someone as they entered through there. 

Feeling defeated, he made his way back down to the floor and settled in a corner to wait. He had to hope that Peter would raise the alarm when he realised he wasn’t home, or Thursday when he didn’t show up for work in the morning. He didn’t know what Joseph had planned beyond bringing him here but he feared it couldn’t be good. 

He didn’t know how long he had been down here, or how long he would have to wait before Joseph came to see him, or he was found. He worked at trying to loosen or undo the rough cords that encircled his wrists. In the effort it took to move them so his fingers were less numb they bit into his skin until his wrists were burning with pain and he could taste blood. He felt a little dizzy at the thought so gave up. 

The endless dark left him exhausted, but unable to sleep. He closed his eyes anyway and worked his way steadily through all the lyrics to his favourite operas for the sake of something other than fear to think about. 

He had to hold onto hope or he would go mad.

\-----

Morning woke Peter before the shrill call of Morse’s alarm clock did. He had drifted off to sleep sometime closer to dawn than dusk, the ghosts of nightmares keeping him fluttering at the edge of consciousness. His neck ached from sleeping in the armchair. Morse was still not back. He felt cold to his very core. This was bad. He freshened up in the tiny bathroom and hurried to leave.

As he fumbled with the front door, something caught his eye that he’d missed the night before. He might not have noticed it if he hadn’t been so clumsy from lack of sleep. There was a small dark stain in the peeling blue paint on one edge of the door. Looking down, he noticed a few small spots on the thin carpet. 

Blood. 

To hell with tiptoeing around; Morse could be in danger. He was calling the Inspector now.

\-----

It was a good morning in the Thursday household. Win had cooked up a big fried breakfast, Joan and Sam weren’t bickering for once, and there was a glittering frost decorating the outside world. Fred knew better than to think it would last, but at least until Morse arrived to pick him up he could bask in the simple comforts of family life.

Thinking of Morse brought a smile to his face as he sipped his tea. The lad was doing so well the last week or so and he’d been almost chirpy the previous morning. Maybe he’d met someone? To get both Morse and Jakes paired off would give the team a bit of stability. Jakes deserved happiness after his start in life, and Morse needed someone to keep him sane and healthy.

He didn’t like to think of the state Morse had been in when he’d returned to Oxford. He’d been gaunt, distant, and covered in injuries. He’d read Morse’s file at Bright’s insistence when he’d transferred him from Records to CID. It had been damning reading even before he saw the state of the lad’s chest. Multiple sickness leaves, a broken hand, and broken ribs, all in the space of a year. 

It should have been reassuring, the way Morse promised not to take on cases or criminals outside of work any more, but instead it disconcerted him how readily those promises were given. While Morse was been recuperating back in Records that worry had grown. The lad was in a worse state even than when he’d been shot or imprisoned. Something just didn’t add up. 

Fred had watched carefully as Morse had improved week on week. Gradually they had got the old Morse back. Well, mostly. He had changed certainly. He put on a good act, but Fred knew him well enough to know there was something he wasn’t talking about. With Morse it was all a case of patiently waiting. Push him and his stubborn, defiant, nature would see them arguing. So he would wait, and eventually the lad would talk.

The phone rang then, startling him out of his thoughts.

\-----

Morse was certain it must be morning by now. He had lost all concept of time but he was sure it would be morning at the very least. He now longed for and feared sleep in equal measure. He was beyond exhausted, but piercing needles of fear at what might happen to him drove into him every time he approached rest.

The darkness had not waned at all. It pressed against his eyes like an oppressive force. Despite knowing it was full dark and that he was alone in the small space, he had begun imagining he saw flickers of movement in the corners of his eyes. More than once he flinched away from a shape that swooped towards him.

Straining his ears, he tried to listen for anything to indicate whether he was right about his location, or what time of day it might be, but all he could hear were shadows of sounds. At least it wasn’t completely silent. It was already so quiet in that space that his ears rang with the absence of noise. He thought about screaming, wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before, opened his mouth to call out even, but fear of what would happen if his captor objected to that made him bite down on his tongue instead.

He wondered what was happening in Oxford right now. Had they noticed his absence yet? Was Peter alright? He missed his… _what were they now exactly? Friends? Lovers? Boyfriends? Partners?_

A nasty thought caught on the rough edges of his mind and stuck fast. What if Joseph was right and Peter didn’t really love him? What if it was all some terrible trick? What if it was pity, or he was being used? Would Peter be looking for him if that was the case? He tried to quiet the questions but they wouldn’t let him be. The idea that no one really cared, that they wouldn’t try too hard to find him, that he might never get out of this pit, filled him with a terror much greater than the darkness and pain. 

Time dragged on interminably. Nothing happened. The cold had seeped into his bones until he ached. 

Morse began to long for something, _anything_ , to happen. As time strung out, spooling out further and further into the darkness, his mind began to no longer feel quite his own. It was like he was looking down upon his body from the top of a deep well. He resumed fighting the bindings on his hands. He knew it was almost certainly futile, but the pain kept him tethered to sanity and distracted him from the oppressiveness of the cold, dark, silent space.

In that awful hole, Morse learned that the fear of madness was far worse than madness itself.

Finally, there was a creaking sound, and light flooded the basement, searing Morse with its electric brightness, even with his eyes closed.

\-----

Morse’s phone was not plugged in for some reason. Peter reconnected it and he dialed the Thursday’s number with shaking hands. He was going to need a good excuse for how he knew Morse was missing but his mind was blank with fear. The line was engaged.

Peter paced the room and began to work his way through a cigarette. He tried again a few minutes later but the phone was answered by Mrs Thursday who informed him that her husband had just left in a hurry after a phone call from the station. 

So he rang the station, where he found out that the body of a young man had been discovered on the towpath, and Thursday had gone directly to the scene. 

They had been trying to call both him and Morse.

The description of the body matched Morse’s. 

After a moment of startled silence he hung up the phone without another word and all but ran out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're worrying, and don't know this already, I am a happy endings kinda gal. There will be light after the darkness. Eventually.


	3. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda icky if you're not a fan of mentions of violent injuries. I'm not overly fond myself so it's not overly graphic but just a heads up.

The tangle of river weed, pale limbs, and hair on the bank was almost picturesque in the still air and dappled morning sunlight. There was no doubting that the violence inflicted on this fallen form had been horrific, yet the scene was disparately peaceful. Fred felt a part of his heart fall away as the sight before him confirmed what he’d been told on the phone; the victim could be Morse.

Of course, Morse wasn’t even listed as missing, he’d seen him just the previous morning, but the station confirmed they had been trying to call him since the body was found and had no response. Plus there was the fact Morse hadn’t showed up when he usually would to collect the car. 

Even the injuries to the body implied this could be the Sergeant he saw more as a son than a colleague. The damage seemed strategic. Anywhere there could have been an identifying mark, there was another appalling wound.

Max arrived soundlessly at his side, his face tense.

“I hope you have good news for me.” Fred muttered. He didn’t know why he felt almost compelled to whisper. Everyone on the scene was subdued. Not only was this a gruesome scene, even for seasoned officers, but the added unspoken fear this was one of their own muted their reactions.

“I was rather hoping that you’d be the one with good news for me.” Max replied with a sigh. They both knew what he meant. 

“He’ll have just overslept. Been a busy few months for the lad.” Fred said with more hope than optimism. 

“The body’s in a bad way. It’ll just be dental records to try and identify-” Max abruptly broke off whatever he had been about to say, removed his glasses, and began cleaning them. “And the teeth are a state much like the rest of the face so even dental records might be a long shot.”

Fred cleared his throat and managed to ask, “do we have a time of death?”

“Sometime between midnight and three at a guess. I’ll have a better idea after the postmortem.” Max’s voice was much softer than usual. They both knew that his answer didn’t rule out Morse as the victim as Fred had been hoping.

“Morse will be along soon, no doubt lacking in apologies for being late. He’ll have this all solved in no time.”

“The clothes are his, you know.” Max said gently.

Fred only nodded, unable to speak. He’d also recognised the clothing on the body. 

“Shall we say two o’clock?” Fred nodded again and Max left. 

Hurried footsteps announced the arrival of someone else behind him. Fred looked over his shoulder and saw a rather rumpled looking Peter Jakes. He’d never seen the young man looking as dishevelled as this. On another morning he might have wondered what could cause such a drastic change.

“I came as soon as I heard. It’s not… is it?” Jakes ran a nervous hand through his hair. His concern for his colleague was evident. 

Fred had known that Jakes and Morse had become more amiable. For all that they still acted like rivals or enemies in the office, he could see that it was mostly out of habit, there was no real antagonism between them.

“We don’t know. The… er… the body certainly resembles...” Fred swallowed down a wave of fear and anger. He still couldn’t say the name. “They’re his clothes. And he’s not answering his phone.” He tried to find some optimism, this really had to be a gross misunderstanding. “Probably just coincidence. He must’ve overslept. Or spent the night at his new girlfriend’s place.”

Jakes hesitated before speaking again. He studied his shoes and attempted to straighten out his clothes. He’d obviously had to come directly from his own new girlfriend. There was no way Peter Jakes would normally turn up in such a state. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them. 

“He wasn’t home last night, and there’s blood…” Fred couldn’t see Jakes’ expression as he spoke because the young man was still staring at the ground, but his voice was tense. “There’s blood on his front door and carpet. Not much. Just a few drops. But it’s definitely recent.”

“How do you know this exactly?” Fred asked, confused.

“I… I went by his place on the way here. Thought I could clear things up, bring him over, sort it out.” 

“How did you get in?”

“Spare key. Found it pretty easy.” 

“And how do you know he wasn’t at home last night?”

“We were supposed to meet up. Convinced him to join our pub quiz team. Thought with that brain of his… But he didn’t show. Dropped by his place on the way home and there was no answer.” Jakes buried his hands in his pockets. He was still staring at his shoes. Fred knew Jakes was lying, but about what exactly he wasn’t sure.

“Anything else you’d like to share, apart from breaking in to a potential crime scene and convincing Morse of all people to join a pub quiz team?”

Again Jakes hesitated before answering. “There was one other odd thing. There was a record left out on the player.”

“And?” Fred was baffled where this was going.

“Just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d do. The way he is with his music, well, I’d have thought he’d put them away.” Jakes finally stood up straight and looked at him. “But maybe I’m wrong. Not like I know that much about him.” The offhand manner he spoke in was far too studied for Fred’s liking. What exactly was the situation between his two Sergeants?

“Hmm… Right, well, lets get someone round there to check it out. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Don’t forget that Morse is only missing unless proven otherwise.”

Jakes nodded and they both set to work.

\-----

Peter felt numb. At the crime scene he had been running on pure adrenaline. He’d seen the mangled corpse. It should have been a shock. It was one of the most brutal murders he’d ever seen. And it was most likely the man he loved that had suffered that terrible fate. He’d expected to feel something intense, rage or grief perhaps, but instead it felt like he was slowly drowning in icy water. He couldn’t summon up the energy to do anything more than follow the routine and procedure of investigation.

It was clear from their conversation that Inspector Thursday was in denial. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way he supposed, but he’d also expected more him. Peter knew that Thursday and his wife saw Morse more as a son. Not that Morse would ever believe him when he teased him about it. He always insisted they were just being polite. 

Thursday had gone from the scene to Morse’s flat. Peter knew he ought to worry about what he might have left there to betray their relationship, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The man he loved was dead, so what was the point of anything. 

Peter made his way through the rest of the morning on autopilot. He set up the incident boards, collated statements, and listed the key points they knew so far, which were sparingly few. There was still no trace of what had become of Morse after the previous afternoon. He had attended the appointment he’d had the time off for, but beyond that they knew nothing. When the crime scene photographs were brought up Peter found himself staring at them, trying to actually feel something, to understand that this wasn’t just some bad dream. 

He had failed Morse. 

Thursday drifted over to his desk. He looked down and, upon seeing the photographs, grunted his disgust and looked away.

“You up to coming along to see DeBryn?” 

Attending an autopsy for his lover was the last thing he wanted, but Peter nodded and gathered his coat. He closed the file of photographs. Maybe seeing the body again would make this feel real.

\-----

Morse kept his eyes closed even after they had adjusted to the light. He tracked the sounds of footsteps down the stairs, then approaching across the dirt floor. He needed to think fast.

 _Could he overcome his captor and make a break for it?_ If he was in Joseph’s country cottage then he was a fair distance from anywhere. You could walk into the village in a few minutes, but the likelihood of making it there with bound hands and probably someone pursuing him was slim. There were other cottages along the way, but not many. So he would need to overcome Joseph, then get out of the cellar and seal him in. 

“I know the way your mind works, Morse.” Joseph’s deep voice resonated in the small room. “It’s not worth it. You know that I’ll win every time. Don’t make me hurt you.” 

Morse opened his eyes and stared at the form silhouetted against the dim light that filtered down from the room above. His heart raced with all the adrenaline that had no outlet. 

“Let me go, Joseph.” He was surprised and glad at the strength he managed to convey in his demand. For all his fear, he didn’t want to appear weak.

“You know I’m doing this for your own good. You need looking after. You can’t look after yourself. The state of that hovel you were living in. I’ll take care of you now.”

Morse tried to make out Joseph’s expression but it was lost to the shadows. “I was doing fine until you abducted me. _Let me go._ ” 

“We are destined to be together, Morse. Please don’t fight this.” 

Morse felt his throat constricting at the conviction in Joseph’s voice. He must be delusional to think that he would ever want to be with a man who had not only nearly killed him, but then grabbed him from his home and locked him in a cold, damp cellar for hours on end. The fear of the last few hours manifested itself in a cold fury. Without another thought, Morse launched himself at Joseph, his bound hands aimed at the other man’s throat.

Joseph was taken by surprise and momentarily thrown off balance, but he regained it quickly and deflected Morse’s arms before they could take hold. They struggled for a few moments until Morse was thrown to the floor. With his hands tied he couldn’t break the fall and landed heavily on his side. 

A familiar pain flooded Morse’s body. He was pretty sure he’d broken something. Arm? Ribs? He didn’t get a chance to assess further as a tirade of fists, and feet, and verbal abuse landed upon his body in wave after wave without any respite. 

When it all stopped he was almost glad when the dark and silence returned and he was left alone in the icy, wet, cellar.

\-----

Fred had thought he had learned his lesson after losing one officer under his care. He had thought he could prevent it happening again, but he had also thought he had learned not to get so close. Now he was even closer to Morse than he had been to Mickey Carter.

The partially covered body laid out before them in the morgue triggered the rage he was always trying to keep in check. He didn’t want it to be Morse, but what was in tact of it certainly looked like him. Regardless of whether it was or wasn’t, no one should have to suffer the way this young man had. 

Jakes was like a ghost next to him. His other Sergeant had been even more distant than usual since this morning. After the way he had shown up at the scene, Fred had expected more from Jakes than his cold efficiency.

Max DeBryn’s forehead was creased in a permanent frown as he listed off all the details about the body. The words washed over Fred. He couldn’t seem to take them in. No matter what he saw that should convince him further, he just didn’t want to believe Morse was dead.

A movement at his side caught his attention. Something DeBryn had just said had caused Jakes to step forward, his face suddenly lined with tension. 

“Sergeant?” He asked quietly, not wanting to disturb DeBryn’s steady monologue.

“I thought… I don’t know how I forgot… His back...” Jakes mumbled, his words disjointed and not making any sense to Fred. 

DeBryn looked up from his notes. “What about his back, Sergeant?”

“You didn’t mention the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” Both Fred and Max asked in a chorus of confusion.

Jakes seemed to grow paler, but he met Fred’s eyes defiantly. “He told me about it in the pub once. Got a tattoo on his back over some scar. I know there’s damage most places he had scars, but what if they missed some of the tattoo?”

“You aren’t serious?” Fred asked, even as Max signalled for Jakes to assist him in turning over the body. “Morse? A tattoo? He’d never get a tattoo. It’s a crazy notion.” He couldn’t even begin to imagine the uptight young man he knew with a tattoo. 

“It’s not there.” Jakes was almost laughing as he examined the back of the body with DeBryn. “It’s not him. It’s not him!”

“How can you be sure?” DeBryn asked his Sergeant.

Jakes started, as though he’d forgotten he was in the company of others. “I made him show me. I mean, Morse with a tattoo, wouldn’t you? It extended further than this-” His hand waved at the deep gouge that marked the back of the body. “Whoever did this must have wanted us to think this was Morse, and they knew a lot, but they didn’t know about the tattoo.”

Fred still couldn’t really get his head around the idea of Morse with a tattoo, but he set that aside as he latched onto the key point of the conversation – Jakes at least was satisfied that this was not Morse. The lad could still be alive. But the person that had done this was cruel and vicious, and they could probably safely assume they were the one that had Morse. They needed to find him, and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter all. I've almost got the final chapter typed up for this now so should keep up with a rate of a chapter every day or two.


	4. The Taken Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was supposed to be a one shot like the other parts of the series but then they all just kept on having Feelings, and Morse is a disaster magnet as usual, so here we are. 
> 
> They are all in desperate need of hugs by now.

Peter had never felt such intense relief as he had when he realised the body in the morgue was not Morse’s. It was still bad he was missing, and deeply worrying that someone appeared to have set it up so that this body looked like it was him, but it was a big step up from ‘almost definitely dead’.

The lies he was having to tell to cover up his relationship with Morse were stacking up now. They came easily. His past had made him an instinctive liar to defend himself. The trouble was keeping track of them. Peter had been far too stressed for almost a day now to really focus on what he was saying. Thursday was accepting his fabrications for now, but that surely wouldn’t last, and he knew the Old Man had a good memory and would spot it if he slipped up and contradicted himself.

By the time they were back at the station, most of Peter’s elation at Morse not being dead had ebbed away and overwhelming anxiety filled its place. He worked his way steadily through a cigarette whilst trying to think like Morse, or at least to think clearly. 

“So, you and Morse go to the pub now then?” 

The voice close behind him made him jump. Peter turned to find Thursday frowning over his shoulder at the photos that Peter had once again been looking at.

He shrugged, trying to appear disinterested. “Now and then.” 

Thursday raised an eyebrow at the vague answer but didn’t push for more. “We’re looking for one man I’d say. Abducted Morse from his place, then killed this one to cover it up.” Thursday frowned again. “Whoever did this has to be pretty warped. What would be the motive? A previous con he nicked maybe? I’m sure there are plenty of those he’s got on the wrong side of.”

“Maybe. But how would they know about all his identifying marks.” Peter thought aloud. 

“True. Medical records maybe? Or if they have him then they could just check I suppose.”

Peter opened his mouth to agree, but then stopped. It was a fair theory, but the scene at Morse’s flat implied to him that he had at least opened the door willingly. He had seen Morse’s hyper-vigilance too many times to believe that he would just open his front door to someone he had helped to put away. 

There was only one person that he thought could be this dangerous that Morse might open the door to. He hoped he was wrong. Surely Morse wouldn’t be so foolish after how they had parted to just let him in. Peter wanted to believe he wouldn’t, but he had also seen how readily Morse blamed himself for it all.

“Jakes?” Thursday was looking at him. Peter wondered how long he’d been standing there with his mouth hanging open.

“I just had a thought. Someone Morse mentioned.” Peter fumbled to get out and light another cigarette to occupy his shaking hands. This was going to be hard to explain without giving anything away.

“Go on.” Prompted Thursday.

“He rented a room in a flat from someone before he transferred back. Guy had a temper from what I gathered. He didn’t say exactly, but I think this flatmate was kind of… obsessed with him. I think it was him that, you know, landed him in hospital.” 

Peter took a long drag of his cigarette and tried to hold his most blank expression. He needed to tell the Old Man these things in case it _was_ Joseph that had done this so they could get Morse back safely, but it went against all his instincts. Thursday’s confused stare told him that, just as he feared, it was unlikely he was going to just accept the airbrushed version of events he was offering.

“A flatmate? Morse never mentioned anything about this to me.”

“He was kind of drunk when he was talking about it.” 

“Do you have a name for this flatmate?”

“Joseph. He never mentioned a last name.” Peter now deeply regretted not asking. He hadn’t wanted to push Morse, but now he felt like he was working blind. “I think he was a doctor of some kind? Anyway, if he was the one that hurt Morse before he’d know about all the scars he’d need to cover up to stop us realising it wasn’t him, but he wouldn’t know about the tattoo.” 

“Right, get on it. See if you can track him down. We need to follow up any lead right now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Peter set to work, all too conscious of the intent gaze of the Inspector.

\-----

Morse woke up, still curled up on the hard floor. At least, he was pretty sure he woke up. The pain presented itself more readily and his thoughts became more lucid, but otherwise these was no change when he opened his eyes. He was back in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he drew himself to sitting. His side was one great wall of aches. His arm was another matter. It wasn’t as painful as it had been before, but it still hurt in a way that made him suspect it was fractured. 

A wave of dizziness washed over him. How long had he been here now? It couldn’t have been so long, but the pain and the cold were becoming habitual. He was dimly aware that he was both hungry and thirsty. When had he last eaten or drank anything? His unfortunate tendency to skip meals was finally having some benefit as it wasn’t bothering him too much just yet.

Time resumed its syrupy slow flow. Pain, cold, and thirst became a fog he couldn’t think through, for all that he needed to make some kind of plan to escape. Morse eased himself gently as he could to a sitting position, then shuffled backwards until he had a wall to lean against. The damp soaked through his thin shirt immediately. It had already been wet, but now it felt like there was water running down his back. He moved his feet and the sound of water came back to him. An all new fear set in. Had Joseph ever mentioned if this cellar flooded?

He wasn’t sure if he slept, or just fell unconscious again. His jumbled thoughts kept returning to one person. Peter. At least Peter was safe. At least he hadn’t said who he was with now. He hated to think what Joseph might do if he knew who he was in a relationship with now. He didn’t believe in a god, but that didn’t stop him praying that he would get out of this so he could see Peter again.

He needed to think. He needed a plan.

\-----

Fred watched the intensity with which Jakes was working with a growing sense that he really was missing something. The whole business about an obsessive ex-flatmate was especially confusing. It rang true, yes, but why would someone Morse was just sharing a flat with become like that, and why wouldn’t he have left after the first time he got hurt? It read more like a domestic abuse situation than one of two people sharing accommodation.

He got on with chasing up all the other leads while Jakes worked on locating the flatmate. After an hour or so, Jakes was at his desk with a full name and an address. It was too far for them to go on such a tenuous lead, so they had to call the local constabulary to make the visit. The officer Fred spoke with recalled Morse, but sounded more annoyed than concerned. 

They waited for two anxious hours before they got a call back. Considering the address was barely minutes from the station Fred was practically wearing a hole in the carpet by the time the phone rang, and Jakes seemed to be trying to exceed his personal best for number of cigarettes smoked in one day.

The news was anything but helpful. Joseph had not been in. A neighbour had mentioned he was probably at his weekend cottage in the country, but they didn’t know where that was. The officer showed no interest in helping any further and rang off before Fred could ask any further questions. 

A slow rage began building in his chest. Morse should never have left his home in Oxford. Those people didn’t know how to appreciate the lad’s skills, but more than that, they clearly didn’t care about their jobs much if they were so blasé about a missing detective.

Jakes’ face was set into a tense mask. He set to work immediately trying to locate the holiday cottage with a focussed determination. It was hard to see the young man who had been so happy just the day before now back to his old act.

It was getting late now, the phone-calls that needed to be made to get information to move things forward slowly began going unanswered. Eventually, as evening became night, he had to call a halt. They all needed to get some sleep. Fred didn’t want to go home or rest, and it was evident the team didn’t either. Morse wasn’t overly popular, but he was one of their own.

\-----

That night was among the worst of Peter’s life. He’d certainly had worse, but the uncertainty of the situation after he had finally found some small measure of peace and happiness in his life made it that much harder to deal with. He hadn’t known what it was to potentially lose someone before because he’d never really had anyone in his life.

So he kept working. The hours flew past as he trawled through everything they had on Joseph. Thursday might not be convinced it was him, but he was. Eventually he fell asleep on his sofa, surrounded by paperwork he shouldn’t have taken home. 

The first light of dawn woke him from a fitful sleep. He’d had endless nightmares that night. Peter realised then that he had never slept as soundly as he did when he was with Morse. He knew he didn’t lash out as Morse did when he dreamed, but he sometimes woke now in the early hours to find Morse curled around him protectively and dried tears on his face. That simple comfort, given without question, kept him grounded. Without it he felt cast adrift, with no idea of the direction of land, and fathoms of crushing depths below him. Peter wondered how he had lived this way before.

Morning brought a flurry of activity at the station. Requests he had put in the day before were answered, and calls were made. Within an hour he had confirmation of the location of Joseph’s cottage, and news that he had told a colleague he would be there this week. 

They still had nothing to act on though. There was nothing to suggest that Joseph had been Morse’s aggressor before, nor anything more than just a flatmate. No motive was apparent. Except for all that Peter knew and couldn’t say. 

To his shame he hesitated. Morse’s life could hang in the balance and he held off for precious minutes dithering about the man’s reputation. Peter’s own didn’t matter to him as much as Morse’s life, but he wavered over ruining Morse’s when he had no say in it.

\-----

Fred looked up from the pathologist’s report to see Jakes waiting uncertainly outside his office. The young man looked as though he’d got even less sleep than he had, and that would take some doing. He’d lain awake half the night imagining all the worst case scenarios.

“Can I help you Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sir, I… I found the address for the cottage.” Jakes replied.

“Right, good. Have you got on to the local police to go check it out?”

“No, not yet.”

“Why?”

Jakes shifted his weight awkwardly, then walked into the office with a sense of purpose, closing the door behind him.

“Sir, I didn’t want to have to say anything because, well, it isn’t mine to tell, but… Morse could be in serious danger, so...” Peter drifted off. Fred wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Jakes so flustered.

“Spit it out Jakes. A man’s life could be at stake.”

Jakes coloured and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Joseph was more than just Morse’s flatmate. He and Morse were… well, they were… _something_ to one another if you know what I mean. I know it was Joseph that hurt Morse because he told me.”

Fred was astounded. He’d had the passing thought the day before that what Jakes was suggesting was more like the sort of thing that happened between lovers, but he hadn’t actually thought… 

_Morse had been in a relationship with a man?_ He couldn’t believe it, and yet it made so much sense. No wonder the lad had so readily agreed not to take on cases outside of work; he hadn’t been doing that in the first place. And no wonder he couldn’t admit to the reason, tried to conceal what had happened, been so traumatised. 

Yet Morse had told Jakes. Why would he do that? He looked properly at Sergeant Peter Jakes for the first time in the last two days. Both he and Morse had been in such a good mood just a couple of days ago. He’d put it down to them both having girlfriends. Now Morse was missing and Jakes was admitting he knew all sorts of secrets about him, like tattoos, and abusive ex-boyfriends. It was all beyond strange.

“You’re confident it’s him?” He asked, setting aside all the rest for consideration once Morse was safe again.

“Yes, Sir.”

“How far is this cottage?”

“Around an hour and three quarters, or a half if we hurry.”

Fred thought about the previous day, and the disinterest of Morse’s former colleagues, and made a snap decision. “Get the car. We’re checking it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Fred. Where would they be without you? 
> 
> Things really kick off in the next chapter. Just editing that now and trying to finish the last one, but I suspect this might gain an extra chapter or epilogue.


	5. The Pain in the Pretence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter should come with warnings, but I'm not entirely sure what for. Anyway, here we go!

Morse didn’t know how long he had been alone in the cellar for now. He didn’t know how long it had been since he was taken from Oxford. It felt like days, but was probably much less. For a while he’d tried to keep a count to gain some sense of time, but he kept losing track when the hallucinations brought on by the darkness rushed at him.

By now, whenever ‘now’ was exactly, he was shivering uncontrollably, couldn’t keep his breathing even, and kept forgetting where he was. Water was flowing down the walls now and he was sitting in at least a couple of inches. It was shallow, but enough to drown in, his brain unhelpfully supplied. Every now and then, in a more lucid moment, his rational brain would remind him that this could be the start of hypothermia, and that he really ought to get up and move around to get his circulation going, but he always lost track before he could actually act on the thought.

Conscious thought slipped away from him despite his best efforts.

\-----

He wasn’t sure if he slept or passed out, but the next thing Morse knew he was laid out on a bed, his wrists were bandaged, his clothes had been removed, and an old quilt thrown over him. It was dark in the small room, but at least he could actually see.

It took several attempts to get up and make his way over to the door. He wasn’t sure if this was some kind of fevered dream, or if he really had been released from that awful cellar. The rough, unfinished, floorboards beneath his bare soles made him think this must be real. He wasn’t as cold as he had been, but his body still convulsed with shivers. His head was one solid ache. A combination of the head wound and dehydration probably. Ironic that he should be dehydrated given he could have drowned in a flooding cellar.

The door, predictably, was locked, so he made his way steadily back to the bed, leaning heavily on the wall for support. Morse wrapped the quilt around his aching body. A cursory glance had told him what he already knew – he was badly bruised from the beating Joseph had inflicted on him - and his left arm throbbed with the steady, deep-seated sensation of a break or fracture. All in all, he’d not been in a worse state many times before.

He wondered how Joseph had managed to get him up the stairs. Grazes to the backs of his legs suggested he’d been dragged. Those had been cleaned, he noted, and a brush over his forehead told him that the cut to his head had been cleaned and dressed too. He instinctively hugged the quilt a little tighter around his naked body. The idea of Joseph touching him while he was unconscious, even if only to clean and dress his wounds, made him feel overwhelmingly sick. 

Morse recognised the room he was in. It was the little back bedroom in Joseph’s cottage. He remembered the previous summer, how they had begun to renovate the place together. They hadn’t done anything more than strip this room bare. There were always so many distractions; kisses to be stolen, tea to be drunk, arguments to be had. He remembered trying to prise the window open and finding it had been painted shut, and then climbing a rickety ladder to find the shutters outside were jammed firmly. There was no way out in his current condition. 

Now that his head was a little clearer he could try and think rationally about what to do. The dim light now filtering in meant that it was probably coming on for morning. That meant he had been here at least a full day and two nights, but possibly longer. No one had come for him yet. What were the chances they would connect the dots to Joseph before it was too late? Joseph had never said he wanted to kill him, but how long would it be before he went too far? No, he couldn’t take the risk of waiting, he had to get out of here by himself.

Rain battered the shutters and the roof. That would be the reason the cellar had been filling up then. He tried to listen out for Joseph in the next room, but there was nothing but the white noise of water beating down. He needed to get some clothes. Even in good weather that would be important, but in this rain? He wasn’t always the best at self-preservation, but he wanted to get out of this alive.

\-----

The drive to the cottage was taking so much longer than Peter would have liked. They were making good time, but it felt like they were travelling far too slowly. He wasn’t one to rely on ‘copper’s instinct’ as the Old Man often did, but today he just _knew_ that this was where Morse was, and had a dreadful feeling that if they didn’t hurry they would be too late. He tried not to dwell too much on what ‘too late’ meant.

Every now and then he risked a glance over to the Inspector. He’d taken a big risk telling him that Morse and Joseph had been together. Thursday didn’t seem angry, or disgusted, as he’d feared. He’d been shocked at first, that much had been obvious, and now he was silent, his brow creased in thought. Peter wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but afraid of the answer.

The rain began when they were only a few miles from the cottage. Great heavy drops that obscured the windscreen. They missed the turning to the village, then the turning out of it, in the curtains of water that washed over their path. 

Peter wanted to scream in frustration at all the delays. He gripped the wheel tighter and tried to spot the track they were looking for.

“We’ll get to him.” Thursday’s voice broke the silence in the car.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we always do. Morse is tougher than he looks. We’ll put this right and bring him home.” 

The intense concentration that had kept the Inspector quiet through the journey seemed to have cleared revealing an expression that Peter couldn’t name, but wouldn’t want to cross. 

He turned his attention back to the road. Ahead, a small gateway revealed itself through the downpour. 

They were finally there.

\-----

It was some hours later when the door to the small bedroom opened revealing Joseph. Morse forced a smile to his face and tried to hide the way his hands clenched into fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. He held on to the quilt around his shivering form as though it were some kind of armour.

“Joseph.”

“Morse! you’re awake already?” Joseph smiled widely in response.

“I’m so cold. Do you think I could have my clothes back now?” It took every fibre of his being not to simply demand them. He couldn’t afford to ruin his plan with antagonism. He needed to appear broken and submissive.

“Oh, my poor love,” Joseph’s eyes raked over his body, “you really are shivering. I’ll go get your clothes for you.” There was still a hint of suspicion in Joseph’s voice but he left the door open when he went to fetch the clothing. Morse fought his instincts to run. He needed to time this just right.

Joseph returned with a bundle of clothing. He set it on the bed and the stepped back, leaning casually on the wall. They were not the clothes Morse had been wearing. Now he thought about it those were probably pretty badly ruined. He looked through the pile and recognised the outfit immediately. The dark shirt and soft grey jumper were favourites of Joseph’s. Morse had left them behind when he ran, hadn’t wanted a reminder of their intimacy so close to his skin.

“Well? Getting dressed or not?” 

Joseph was clearly not intending to go anywhere. Morse swallowed down the nausea that rose in his throat. He had to play his part for a while longer. He fumbled with the clothes. His fingers were stiff with the cold and the pain from his lacerated wrists. He tried to focus on the routine of dressing so he didn’t have to think about Joseph watching him all the while. He was doing well until he came to the shirt buttons. His hands were shaking so badly from the effort that he couldn’t fix the buttons through their holes.

A voice spoke close by his ear making him jump. “Here love, let me help with those.” Joseph sat down on the bed beside him. Familiar hands brushed his own away and steadily fastened the buttons of the shirt. 

Their faces were disturbingly close now. Joseph held his gaze the whole time he was buttoning the shirt. Morse unconsciously held his breath. Every part of him was screaming to _run, run, run..._ Joseph finished with the shirt and handed him the jumper. Morse drew a ragged breath and pulled it on awkwardly. Moving his damaged arm through the sleeve threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He bit down on his lip and tried to clear his mind to his one purpose; he was going to get out of this alive to see Peter again. To do that he had to be strong and keep his act going.

His resolve wavered as Joseph ran a hand down the side of his face, thumb gently grazing his lips. 

_Run, run, run..._ was the rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Instead he smiled. He would tell any lie to get out of there. The room spun gently. _Where was here again? Why was he here?_

“What’s with the tattoo?” Joseph suddenly asked him.

“Tattoo?” Morse’s mind was still struggling to keep up with what was happening.

“The one on your back, silly. Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking yourself stupid again? I thought we’d fixed that.”

Morse shrugged. Let him think it was a drunken mistake. Joseph’s hand was still on his face. He resisted the urge to swipe it away.

“Well, anyway, I hate it. As I’m sure you know. We’ll have to sort that out.” Joseph’s smile was as wide and easy as ever. Morse hated to think how he intended to ‘sort out’ the tattoo that now climbed his back. “Come on, I made us some lunch.” Joseph stood then and held out his hand. Morse didn’t want to take it, but he did. 

His head felt light and he was conscious of swaying badly when he stood up. He felt dizzy and sick. Between the head wound, broken arm, various other cuts and bruises, possible hypothermia, dehydration, lack of sleep, and having not eaten for at least two days it wasn’t really a surprise that he felt that way. 

His grip on reality was coming loose again, like his tethers to rational thought were frayed and thin. 

A worrying urge to giggle bubbled up in his chest. He stifled it in a mock cough that became a very real coughing fit.

Joseph’s strong arms held him as his lungs tried to exit his body. When he finally stilled, Joseph helped him down the stairs and into the kitchen. _Run, run, run!_ Despite his instincts, he leaned into the touch.

\-----

Fred took in the slightly dilapidated cottage they had pulled up outside of. There was another car parked up at the end of the lane. It was flashy, the sort of thing folks with more money than sense bought. He indicated for Peter to block it in. Better not to give the bastard a chance to get away if they could help it.

The solid weight of his gun in his coat pressed against his side, reassuring and disconcerting in equal measure. He probably shouldn’t have brought it. He knew that he was anything but rational when it came to his family being threatened and, despite all that he hadn’t known, Morse _was_ family. Fred didn’t want to do anything foolish that would make the situation worse. Yet if they were right and this man was responsible for both the murder and Morse’s disappearance then he was extremely dangerous.

As they had driven he had examined the idea of Morse being gay as if it were a case he was working on. He prodded at his own feelings and come to the conclusion that, although he was shocked, it didn’t change how he felt about the lad. If anything it made him feel even more protective. How had the man he thought of like a son endured hiding his true nature all this time? 

Then there was the Joseph issue. He didn’t need to examine his thoughts on that matter. His fury at the idea that someone had hurt Morse that way, and for so long, knew no bounds. Even worse was that Morse must have thought he had no one to turn to. He had come back to Oxford under his own steam and said nothing while he suffered. He should have had family there to protect him, to help him, to love him. In a kinder universe Morse should have been _his_ son.

Fred set aside his thoughts. Right now Morse needed saving again. He got out of the car and he and Jakes hurried through the rain to the relative shelter of the bedraggled porch. Fred rapped loudly on the front door, resisting the urge to batter the cracked wood until it gave him faster entrance to where they might find Morse. 

Jakes hovered unusually close by his shoulder, as though seeking shelter in his shadow like a small child. The man had seemed edgier since his confession earlier. There had been a barely concealed frantic look in Jakes’ eyes as he’d driven and he couldn’t avoid noticing the endless glances he’d thrown in his direction. He was tense as a strung wire on an instrument. Fred had made the mistake once before of not seeing past Peter Jakes’ carefully curated cover, he feared he’d unwittingly fallen into the same trap once more.

The door was opened revealing a tall, handsome, man. He was all angles and wore a superficial smile. Here then was another person that was presenting a facade to the world, but this one was far more sinister. This was ‘Joseph’ then. He didn’t need to ask. He’d met enough people that smiled in the way this man did to be fooled by his charm.

“Hello gentlemen. How may I be of assistance?”

Fred flashed his warrant card quickly, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the point of issue. “Joseph McKellen?”

“You’ve found him.” Joseph replied with a smile that was wide, but tight lipped. 

Behind him Jakes shifted as though he might push past, so Fred rolled his shoulder and surreptitiously opened his hand in a stalling gesture. 

“Might we come in for a minute? Just a small matter we hoped you might help us clear up.” Fred used all the false deference he had learned over the years. In his head he pictured the smug, self-satisfied, expression being wiped off this predator’s face by his fist.

“Of course, do come in. However, I think it prudent to warn you I have a friend staying with me. He’s in a bit of a state so I’d prefer you didn’t do anything to disturb him. Emotionally unstable if you know what I mean?” 

Fred’s blood ran cold. _Surely this wasn’t Morse he was so casually announcing as his ‘emotionally unstable friend’?_

“No problem at all, Sir.” 

Joseph stepped aside, sweeping out an arm in a grand welcoming gesture, then walked on ahead of them to a room at the back of the cottage. 

“Sir, what if-” Jakes was now practically pressed against his shoulder. 

“Let’s take this one step at a time Sergeant.” He cut off Jakes’ question.

They followed the serpent’s trail through the house and into an old fashioned kitchen. Seated at a small table near the stove was Joseph, and the very man they had been looking for. 

Morse looked pale, and a small bandage decorated a bruised forehead, but he otherwise looked fine. Joseph reached out around the remnants of a meal and laid his hand over Morse’s wrist. The pair’s eyes were locked on one another. Joseph looked like he had just won a great prize. Morse wore a blank expression that troubled him deeply.

“So, what was it you wanted to clear up gentlemen?” Joseph asked. 

“Morse?” Jakes called to their friend and colleague, concern filling his voice. 

“Hello Sir, Sergeant.” Morse’s voice was devoid of its usual rich cadence. He didn’t look away from Joseph. The tableau before them was as unnatural as an oil painting.

“You’ve been missing for two days Morse. Where have you been?” Fred asked, taking a step forwards. His every instinct was telling him there was very real danger in this seemingly mundane scene.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I was feeling a little… unwell. I needed to take a break. So I came to visit an old friend. I should have informed you before. My apologies.”

Morse still wasn’t looking at them. _What the hell was going on?_

“You can come back with us now.” Jakes said quietly.

Finally Morse broke that interminable gaze and looked at them. His eyes flitted first over Jakes, then settled on Fred. 

“Thank you for coming. I appreciate the concern, but I will remain here.”

“No.” Jakes refuted the absurd statement.

Morse carried on looking at Fred while speaking to Jakes. “I’ll be back in a few days. I need to rest here with my friend for now. Thank you for coming, but you should go.” 

“No, Morse, what-” Jakes stepped forwards, eyes locked desperately on Morse, and Fred finally saw what it was he hadn’t been able to figure out about the two of them. How could he have missed _that?_

 _“Please,”_ Morse cut him off, an edge of desolation creeping into his tone, “I would like you to _go now_.”

“Sergeant-” Fred wanted to caution Jakes, but he didn’t know how to explain without exposing the piece of theatre they had walked into for whatever it really was.

 _“Look at me.”_ Jakes demanded.

Slowly, Morse turned his dead eyed stare on to Jakes. They looked at one another, Morse as devoid of emotion as a statue, and Jakes... it was too much, Fred hoped never to see such a harrowed look in those eyes ever again.

“Go. Now. I want you to leave.” Morse’s voice was as cold as the grave as he enunciated each word precisely at Jakes.

“I think my friend has made his position perfectly clear gentlemen.” Joseph gave them another of his insincere smiles. “If you’ll recall, I did ask you not to disturb anything.” He said pointedly. “I am going to have to ask you to leave my house now.”

Fred nodded his agreement, although he had absolutely no intention of leaving without Morse. He laid a restraining hand on Jakes’ shoulder when he would have started forward again. “Of course. Might I beg a word in private with you before we leave though?”

A ripple crossed Joseph’s contented look. _He wanted to refuse._ The man’s hand closed around Morse’s wrist and Morse flinched, biting his lip and stifling a small sound of pain. From the way the pair switched back to looking at one another he was sure that Joseph hadn’t intended to do it. So he had been right. There _was_ something else going on here.

\-----

Peter felt like his heart was breaking. He’d been in love before, lost people he loved before, but he’d never felt loved in return. So he had never experienced anything like the anguish he felt as Morse told him to leave. What had happened? What had that bastard done to him? Morse was sitting at a kitchen table, and to anyone else he might have seemed fine, but to Peter he looked like there was the most fragile thread holding him to this world.

He could just imagine himself reaching out to try and grasp that thread, but snapping it in the process. He stared at his love, back held straight against the hard wooden chair, appearing strong, yet utterly frail. Surely Joseph couldn’t have got to him again? Surely Morse didn’t believe he _wanted_ to be here?

The Inspector was playing some kind of cat and mouse game, but he wasn’t interested in that. All he was interested in was getting his Morse safely away from the slimy man. 

He could certainly see what the attraction had been, Joseph was beyond beautiful when he smiled, but it was a tiger’s smile. Those teeth were sharp. They were as menacing as they were handsome. For someone as insecure as Morse it was no wonder he’d once been taken in by the soft fur, the flattery, but why was he falling for it again?

Then Joseph gripped Morse’s wrist, and Morse flinched. Just for a moment that mask of his fell away and Peter suddenly knew that he was acting. It was back in place in a second, and Morse was once more gazing impassively at Joseph.

Peter was acutely aware of his heartbeat in the intervening silence, of the sweat on his palms, of the drive in his brain that was desperate to hold Morse in his arms and know that he was safe and well. 

Screw this game. Morse was in pain. He was going to bring him home. He dodged out of Thursday’s grip and marched forward, ignoring Thursday’s call to stay put, and yanked Joseph’s hand off Morse’s wrist. He practically pulled the other man out of his seat with the force. His victory was short-lived though as Joseph swung his other hand from under the table and levelled a gun at Morse’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep, sorry! I never intended to leave you on a cliffhanger here, but this got longer than intended and I had to break it somewhere...
> 
> Unless things wrap up miraculously quickly I'm definitely going to have to add an extra chapter now, even if only for the fluff they're so desperately going to need after all this!


	6. The Parting Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, I had to split it and add another chapter for the fluff, but you all seemed to approve of this possibility anyways so hopefully no one is disappointed this isn't the end.

A knock at the door interrupted their meal. Morse tried not to let hope get the better of him. It could just be the postman. Once Joseph was gone he stood to follow and see if he couldn’t turn the situation to his advantage, but a wave of dizziness forced him to sit back down. Despite the food and water he’d had, he was still beyond weak. He would really have to pick his moment well. 

Voices filled the hallway beyond the kitchen, but he couldn’t focus on them through the ringing in his ears. Joseph strode back into the room moments later. He sat down again at the table, opened a small drawer in it, and pulled out a gun. The firearm was swiftly aimed at him below the curtain fall of the tablecloth.

“Tell them you came to stay with a friend because you had a breakdown. Tell them to go. Make them leave, or they die.” 

Morse should have been scared, but the floaty, confused, feeling from earlier had returned. _What was happening? Was this another fever dream?_

Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter and Inspector Thursday enter the room. _They came. They found me._ For one beautiful moment he felt relieved, but then Joseph laid a hand on his wrist and he was grounded again. 

He couldn’t get away now. If they didn’t leave he would lose the closest thing he had to a father, and the man he loved. _No._ He wasn’t going to let that happen. He resolved not to look at Peter. He was certain that if he did he’d never be able to get him away safely.

The next couple of minutes were a waking nightmare. Morse slipped from one lie, one act, into another. It was hard when his body and mind felt like they were barely clinging on to remaining whole. But for their sake he managed it. He even managed to look at Peter, though telling him that lie near broke his heart.

It might even have worked if Joseph hadn’t squeezed his wrist. The pain was immediate, direct, and it ran through his veins like fire. He tried to stifle his reaction, but it wasn’t easy amidst the burn. _What was he supposed to be doing? What was his story?_

Then all hell broke loose. People were shouting, Peter had Joseph by the wrist, and then there was a gun pointed at his head. 

Everything went still and quiet again.

From the corner of his eye he could see Thursday had a gun too, and it was aimed at Joseph.

“I’m going to need you to drop your weapon now.” He heard Thursday say from what felt like several miles away. Everything was falling away from him, until it was just him and Joseph. A world stripped down to only his ailing body and his greatest mistake.

Joseph ignored Thursday’s command. They stared into one another’s eyes and it was like a screen dropped, revealing their true natures. Morse knew once and for all that there was nothing he loved about Joseph, and Joseph could see that Morse had been lying to him. 

Morse knew then that he would only have seconds before rage overtook reason and Joseph killed him. It was written in every line of his expression. He wanted to live, so he had to take a risk and act. 

“Drop the gun!” Thursday shouted. Joseph’s finger tightened around the trigger.

Morse’s hands had been on the table before the situation escalated. Now they rested underneath. He and Joseph were sat on opposite sides, the remnants of their final supper arranged between them like a still life. He gripped the underside edge of the table.

Peter must have read something in his eyes, because he said something that looked like his name, but he couldn’t hear it over the ringing that now filled his ears. Morse looked into the eyes of his love, hoping he could read the apology written in them, then he used all his remaining strength to flip the table towards Joseph’s face.

\-----

Fred should’ve known that Morse would do something foolish, but _this?!_

The table went clattering over. It more topped over than flew. But it was enough. Plates and mugs shattered sending shards of china skittering across the heavy stone floor. One glass smashed while the other bounced once before practically exploding. 

Joseph was thrown off balance by the commotion. A shot rang out and a window behind Morse joined the collection of sharp objects now littering the kitchen. 

Jakes took the opportunity to knock the weapon out of Joseph’s hand. In the struggle between the pair that followed Fred couldn’t get a clear aim on Joseph with his own weapon. No one was listening to him. 

Morse still stood by the chair he’d risen out of as he threw the table. He was cradling one arm in a way that did not bode well, and he looked as white as the tablecloth had been before it was drenched in coffee. His eyes were unfocussed and even at a few paces distant Fred could tell his breathing was erratic. He swayed once, and then crumpled onto the sea of shards.

If things hadn’t been so serious Fred might have rolled his eyes. Only Morse could unintentionally cause so much chaos with such ease.

Peter was immediately distracted by Morse’s collapse and Joseph took advantage of it to break free and try to run. Fred ran after him out of the small kitchen, leaving Jakes to deal with Morse. 

Joseph ran directly out of the cottage and to his car just as Fred had predicted he would. Upon finding his car blocked in by the Jag he spun around to face his pursuer. Fred aimed his gun at the man as the rain steadily soaked their clothes. 

“Give it up McKellen.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I don’t think so copper. You’ve got nothing on me.”

“I’ve got assault of an officer to start with, and I know that when we take this place apart we’ll find what we need to land you for the murder of the decoy you left for us.”

“I’ve never murdered anyone.” Joseph’s expression is smug and slightly unhinged. “And as for the other matter – I’m pretty sure you’ll not want dear Morse’s name in the courts. I’ll happily tell them all how good he was to fuck.”

Fred fought back the urge to shoot the man there and then. How _dare_ he talk about Morse that way!

“As if they’ll believe the rantings of someone as deranged as you. You never deserved Morse, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him and see to it you’re locked away for the rest of your miserable little life.”

Joseph laughed at him then. He actually laughed. “Oh I see what’s going on here. Jealous are we? He said he had a new lover but I didn’t think he was _that_ desperate.” Joseph looked him up and down with a sneer and Fred saw red.

It wasn’t the insult to him that did it; it was everything the man seemed to believe and the awful things he was saying about Morse. Fred launched himself at Joseph. It was what the other man had been trying to goad him into of course, but he hadn’t counted on Fred’s strength. He swiftly lost the upper hand and Fred landed a punch that laid the man out on the ground. 

He should have left it there, but all he could think about was that other cold wet day when he had seen Morse’s scarred body, the fear that had haunted him for weeks after, and then the tentative happiness that he had found despite it all that this man had tried to destroy. He beat the loathsome man until he was unconscious, handcuffed him, and then left him in the rain and the dirt.

\-----

Peter heard Morse hit the floor and immediately ran to him. Thursday could deal with Joseph. There was only one person that mattered to him right now.

He cleared the floor around Morse and then rolled him carefully into the recovery position. It looked like he’d managed to miraculously avoid all but one of the pieces of glass and china. One small shard was embedded in his arm but thankfully it didn’t look too deep.

Morse’s breathing was ragged and uneven, and he was strangely cold. Slightly hitched sleeves revealed bandages around his wrists. What had happened to him? What had that bastard done to his Morse?

Peter made sure Morse was safe and then hunted for a phone. There was none to be found in the place. Behind the kitchen was a small laundry room and pantry. Peter gave it one quick glance and went to leave but something caught his eye. A heavy wooden hatch in the floor was propped open, he could barely see down into the hole in the ground. He switched on the light and it illuminated steps heading down into darkness that glimmered with water. What was that about? It would have to be a mystery for later.

He quickly hurried back to the kitchen to find Morse stirring. He was muttering to himself, but his words didn’t make much sense. Peter knelt down next to him and, after first checking Thursday hadn’t returned yet, he reached out and gently touched his fingertips to Morse’s hand.

“Morse, can you hear me?” Morse didn’t respond “It’s me, it’s Peter. You’re alright now. I’ve got you.” 

Morse’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on him. “Peter?”

Peter checked over his shoulder again, still no Thursday. He spared a moment to worry about what was happening between the Old Man and Joseph. “Yes, love, it’s me. I’m here.”

“You’re not a hallucination?” Morse’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat. “No. Not a hallucination. Very much real.” 

“I’ve been seeing s’m things. Hard to tell what’s real.”

He gently took Morse’s hand. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Why did you faint?”

Morse laughed, and then coughed. Once the coughing subsided he looked at Peter again. “D’you want the full list?” Peter frowned, confused. Morse continued. “cut to head, possible concussion. Abrasions t’ legs and wrists, but they’ve b’n cleaned and bandaged where necessary. Heavy bruising to side, but that’ll heal.” Morse closed his eyes for a moment and Peter opened his mouth to say that it was indeed a full list, but then Morse carried on speaking. “I think m’ arm is broken. There’s also... a lump of glass in it that I’m trying not to look at. Oh, and I might have hypothermia… and dehydration...”

_“Oh and I might have hypothermia?!_ Christ Morse...” Peter looked at the ceiling and tried not to overreact. How could he say such things so casually.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re… what? Morse, seriously, why would you need to be sorry? This wasn’t your fault.”

“You sounded angry.”

“At Joseph, not you. Never you.” Morse raised an eyebrow at him. Peter breathed out slowly through his nose and tried to find a sense of calm. “Alright, yes, sometimes you. But only when you do stupid things. This wasn’t your fault.”

Morse looks around, suddenly looking terrified, as though he has only just recalled the past few minutes. “Where’s Thursday?”

“Probably outside killing your ex-boyfriend.” Peter said it sarcastically, but a part of him hoped it was true,

“What?” Morse tried to get up but paled and laid back down the instant he put weight on his arm. “Wait… he knows?”

Peter felt the shame of having told Thursday Morse’s secrets. “I had to get him to take me seriously about Joseph. After what that bastard did to the other guy…” He shuddered at the memory of the brutally murdered young man. “I was so scared he’d kill you too.”

“Joseph killed someone?” Morse’s face filled with shock, remorse, and guilt. Peter swore to himself. Of course Morse didn’t know. Dammit he should have kept that back. 

“I’ll explain later, when you’re well again.”

Surprisingly Morse nodded his agreement. His eyes slid closed again. Behind him, Peter heard Thursday enter the room.

“I think I need to go to a… er… what’s the place...” Morse is mumbling now, barely conscious. “Hosp’tl… that’s it… need to go...”

“Morse?” Thursday called to him, joining Peter on the floor. Peter tried to discretely let Morse’s hand go but he held fast to him. He was sure Thursday was deliberately not noticing. 

“Sir?” 

“I’m here lad, you’re alright. Come on, let’s get you home now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how Morse hasn't fallen off a cliff by this point in the fandom. His real full 'list' must be catastrophic. (And now I'm frantically telling my brain that a 'Morse falls off a cliff' fic IS NOT NEEDED...)
> 
> Soon. Hugs.
> 
> Let me know if there's anything you want to see from the epilogue/last chapter.


	7. A door, now opened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here we go folks, final chapter/epilogue. Finally some fluff! I fear there may not be enough of it but this is what they would agree to for me.  
> There's a temptation to write an unrelated and unrepentantly fluffy oneshot to counterbalance the dark and angst...

Morse awoke in a luminous white space. He closed his eyes to adapt to the brightness. The last thing he could recall was guns, conflict, and fear. His memory or events was blurred by pain. The warm and fuzzy feeling that filled his heavy limbs was new. He didn’t have the energy to panic about where he might be now. At least it wasn’t the cottage.

“Morse?” A familiar voice called to him. Fingertips touched the back of his hand lightly. The smile that came to his face was simple and easy. _Peter._

He turned his head and opened his eyes again in the direction of the voice, and there he was. Whatever had happened, of one thing he was certain, Peter had found him. He was safe.

“I love you.” The words slipped off his tongue without thought.

Peter’s eyes grew wide. “You’re in the hospital, Morse.” His voice was tight.

“I figured that might be the case.”

“Thursday is here too.”

“Welcome back to the land of the waking.” Thursday’s dry voice drifted to him from the other side of the room. 

“Ah.” It was hard to feel the appropriate sense of concern about his slip up when he was so floaty with whatever drugs they had given him. He looked over at the Inspector. “I think I’m still a bit confused. Did they give me morphine? My lips are numb.” He licked at them to try and regain some sensation. He was vaguely aware that he was talking nonsense, but in this case, perhaps that was for the best.

Thursday sighed and rolled his eyes. “Seeing as you’re awake, I’ll go fetch the doctor.” He turned and strode out of the small room.

“I think I covered that up pretty well.” Morse smiled at the ceiling. 

“I think you’re high as a kite.” Peter’s shoulders had lost some of their tension now Thursday was gone. “I suspected he’d guessed back at the cottage when you wouldn’t let my hand go, but I think all hope of pretence is pretty much futile now you’ve gone and decided to declare your love for me in front of him.”

He turned his hand and grabbed Peter’s “I should probably be worried about that.”

“If you’re not, then don’t be. Save being worried for when the painkillers wear off.”

Morse couldn’t help but agree. Why worry now when he was feeling so peaceful at last. “I’m not looking forward to that. They’re making me nice and fuzzy. Your hand is wonderfully soft you know? You’ll be gone then – after they’re worn off I mean - won’t you?”

“I’m sorry. You know I’d stay if I could.” Peter’s regret was evident. It wasn’t fair really that they couldn’t just be happy like other couples. 

_Is that what they were?_ His brain decided to wonder. Things had gotten so confused in the cellar. Did Peter really care?

“What are we Peter?” He found himself asking.

Peter looked confused by the question. He didn’t get a chance to answer as Thursday came back into the room, tailed by a doctor.

\-----

The doctor explained that Morse would need observation for at least 24 hours before he could be moved to Oxford’s hospital. Peter didn’t want to think about how those hours would feel. He was so tired of always having to act. For once he just wanted to be able to at least hold his love’s hand without constantly having to watch out in case anyone saw.

They only had to interview Morse and then they would be heading back to Oxford. It wasn’t enough time. He settled down in a chair beside the hospital bed and prepared to take notes. Thursday prompted Morse through his story of what had happened. Peter was grateful for the task, for the pen and paper to keep his hands occupied. It didn’t take long to tell, but what Morse had to say was horrific. 

Hearing in detail what Joseph had done made him wish Thursday really had killed the bastard rather than just beating him senseless. The thought that the man who had done this to Morse was in another room of the same hospital being treated for a ‘fall whilst evading arrest’ made his blood run cold. Peter wanted the man safely locked away and preferably in some hole as far away from his Morse as possible.

Morse spoke of the cellar, and Peter recalled the dark hole in the ground he had seen in the pantry. Surely that couldn’t be what he was talking of? 

It took all of his self-control not to reach out and take Morse in his arms when his voice cracked a couple of times during the tale. It was made all the worse by the fact that he was sure Morse was holding some of it back. He could read it in the pauses and the generalised statements. He had to leave out the relationship relevant details obviously, but there was more missing than that.

_‘He brought me some clothes.’_ Morse said, and then there was a shuddering breath. Peter looked at the man he loved retreating back into himself as he spoke, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Why had Morse needed clothes? Thursday asked that exact question. 

_‘My others were wet. The cellar was flooding. I think that’s why he moved me.'_ Was Morse’s sparse reply. As if it was just the answer to a crossword puzzle. As if it didn’t matter that he’d been trapped in a flooding cellar. Peter once more recalled the hole in the ground and the glint of water. His breakfast threatened to make a return appearance. He fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands before resuming his note taking.

And then Morse had explained his act in the kitchen when they had arrived. How he’d been playing along with Joseph’s beliefs to try and make an escape. How he’d threatened to kill Thursday and Jakes if he didn’t make them leave. Peter wasn’t often angry, but the thought of Morse seeing that as his only way out made him furious. To have been in such a bad state and still send away his rescuers to save _their_ lives? He had to have known he was risking his own in doing it. It was beyond wrong. He was never going to let anyone hurt his Morse ever again, and he was sure as hell going to work on getting him to accept that he was as worthy of life as everyone else.

Once they had finished the interview Thursday sent him off on a mission to get them tea before heading back. He found the tea station easily and hurried to return to Morse’s room. He didn’t like leaving him any longer than necessary. When he walked in the room Thursday and Morse were smiling at one another. He had the feeling he had missed something important.

\-----

Fred watched the retreating back of his Sergeant and then turned back to Morse. The lad had been through so much over their years working together, but this was something else entirely. Telling the story of what had happened had clearly taken its toll. Morse’s face was tight with pain despite the drugs, his expression closed off.

He cleared his throat and thought about how best to approach the elephant in the room. “So… do you know Jakes had to tell me about you and Joseph?”

Morse looked at him, guarded, wary. “He did mention it. Will that be a problem?”

“What the rest of the force don’t know about isn’t their problem,” he reassured, “and as for me, well, I don’t see as how this changes anything particularly. I’ll just make a note not to try setting you up with any nice young women I come across.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Come now, we’ve know each other long enough to be a bit less formal haven’t we?”

Morse gave a small smile at last. “Force of habit. Hard to change.”

There was one other matter, and he wasn’t sure whether to ask it or not. Fred could see as plain as anything now that Morse and Jakes meant something to one another. They were evidently good at keeping it under wraps at the station, so it wasn’t going to affect their work, so he wasn’t sure it had anything to do with him. Yet he wanted Morse to know that he was fine with it - more than ‘fine’ really. 

He had realised during the awkward drive to the hospital with Jakes supporting an unconscious Morse in the back seat, and McKellen, also unconscious, bound to the front seat next to him, that when he had been imagining girlfriends for them he had just been imagining the other man in both cases. 

He’d watched as Jakes had forced himself to appear only as concerned as a fellow officer would be, how he had let his hand linger on Morse’s face for just a moment as he checked his breathing, and then quickly checked to see if he had been watching. He imagined if Sam or Joan had been the one lying unconscious and their love was unable to be there for them, comfort them, simply because society had decided it was wrong. Morse was like a son to him and he would be damned if he had to suffer any more than necessary for something that wasn’t wrong. He decided to take a risk and face the issue head on.

“You and Jakes, you’re… together?”

Morse went pale and the smile slid from his face. “I was confused before, the drugs-”

Fred hurried to cut him off before he tried to make up some elaborate lie. “The drugs have nothing to do with it. Work wise, I don’t care if he’s like you, or if you’re together. It has nothing to do with me as a superior officer as far as I can see. But I want you to know that _I’m_ alright with it. You’re like a son to me Morse, and I want you to be happy. I can see how much Jakes cares for you. Do you feel the same way about him?”

Morse gaped at him. He wasn’t sure which bit had been the most surprising to the poor lad. Eventually Morse replied.

“Yes, I do. I… meant what I said before.”

“Then I’m happy for you both. He’s just what you need.” Fred smiled at the lad and Morse gave him a genuine smile in return. He was glad that here was some small ray of sunshine in what had otherwise been a rather bleak day. “I’d offer you a hug, but you’re not exactly in a fit state right now, so I’ll save that for when you’re back home.” 

Jakes came back in the room then bearing the teas he had sent him for. He looked between Fred and Morse with a small frown. 

“Ah, Jakes, just in time. I was just about to explain to Morse that with that git still in the hospital I need a man standing watch. I don’t know these local coppers so what do you say to crashing here tonight? I can pick you both up tomorrow.”

For once Morse didn’t object to being looked after, and Jakes quickly seized upon the opportunity. Fred left them alone to catch up. He told the nurses there was an officer on duty in the room, so not to enter without announcing themselves first, then made his way home. He had a lot to tell Win, although he suspected she would probably tell him she’d guessed years before.

\-----

Morse knew Peter was angry. There was no way he could hide it. He had agreed to stay readily enough, but perhaps that was just doing his duty. His previous uncertainty crept in. He loved Peter, but he wouldn’t hold on to him if the last couple of days had changed things for him.

“Go on, out with it.” Peter sat down in the chair nearest the bed and folded his arms across his chest.

“Out with what?”

“What are you brooding about?”

Morse gaped at Peter. “Brooding?! I’m not some gothic heroine you know.”

“Doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Fine, what are you angry about then?” He retorted. Their old mutual antagonism was an easy pattern to fall into.

“Angry?”

The look on Peter’s face took the edge out of Morse’s attack. “If you don’t want to… you know… If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.”

“Changed my mind about what, Morse?”

“Us. This. Love.” He examined the cast on his arm for something to distract him from the very real risk of tears that were threatening to fall.

Peter’s hand stilled his from pulling at the sling. “Morse, you’re an idiot.”

Morse chanced a look at Peter. The anger was still there, but it was distilled in concern. 

“I think we already established that.”

“Plenty of times over.” Peter gave a soft laugh. “And I love you for it.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“I’m angry at what that bastard did to you mostly, but I’m also pretty… upset that you felt you needed to risk your life for us. You were in a bad way when we got you here. You could have died, Morse. I could have lost you-” Peter’s voice cracked “because you thought your life was less important than mine and Thursday’s.” 

“That’s not it.”

“Oh really? So you’re saying I imagined the bit where you tried to get us to leave because that bastard threatened to hurt us?”

“No, you’re right, I did that, but I didn’t do it because I wanted to die. I wanted to live so badly. I was trying to get out. But I couldn’t lose you. I tried to get you to leave because you and Thursday are the two most important people in my life now. What would’ve been the point escaping if you were dead? _How_ would I have escaped if he killed you?”

“Oh. Right.” Peter swallowed and ran a shaking hand over his hair. “That is a fair point.”

“We both made it out. I didn’t lose you, and you didn’t lose me.” Morse rubbed at his eyes with his good hand. “And I’m so glad of that. But I’ll still understand if the rest of it changes how you feel about me.”

Peter made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat. “It doesn’t change how I feel _at all_. If anything it confirms my firm belief that you are a disaster who could find trouble in a paper bag, and no matter how big your brain is you’re still an idiot, but I love you all the same.”

“I love you too.” Morse laughed through the tears that were now flowing freely down his face. “The romance never dies between us does it?” 

“I hope so.” Peter reached up and tentatively wiped away the tracks that marked his pale skin. 

“He took my clothes, Peter.” Morse suddenly found himself sobbing rather than laughing. “He watched me dress-” his lungs felt tight and devoid of oxygen, “and it isn’t like that’s a terrible thing because he’s seen me naked plenty of times before and we were intimate before and nothing happened this time, but I feel so sick _all the time_ , and the cellar was so dark I couldn’t see, but I kept thinking I did, and then it was filling up with water, and I just kept thinking over and over and _over_ that I couldn’t die without seeing _you_ again-” The stream of words that had flowed from him dried up along with all the air in the room. He gasped and gasped but his chest wouldn’t open and darkness toyed with the edges of his vision. 

The next he knew, somehow Peter had managed to drop the side of the bed and had climbed up next to him. Peter pulled him into his arms and held him until he could breathe again. Slowly he regained control over his heart-rate and the tears stopped falling. They drew apart slightly but Peter kept his arms lightly around him and they rested their foreheads together.

“Can I kill him?” Peter murmured, his breath warm against Morse’s damp face. 

“You know you would never do it, and I love you for that.”

“I could have Thursday do it. You _know_ he would.” 

That startled a laugh from Morse. The painkillers were wearing off and the aches and pangs were creeping back in, but in that moment he felt better than he had in days.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“We’re in a hospital. Anyone could walk in here.”

“I’ll blame the morphine.”

“Fine, one kiss, but then I’ve got to get back in that chair and act like your guard.”

“Deal.”

Peter gently brushed away the last of his tears and then pressed his lips to Morse’s. It wasn’t some grand opera kiss, no high lights and swelling music, but Morse was sure he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

\-----

Thursday returned the next day with fresh clothes for the both of them and drove them back to Oxford the next day. Morse tried to refuse to go to the hospital, insisting he’d had all the relevant treatment already, but Peter won out and he spent a couple of days on a ward under observation. It should have been longer but Morse discharged himself. He had all sorts of arguments lined up for why it was a good choice when Peter arrived to find him was packed and ready to go, but Peter had just shrugged and said he was surprised he’d lasted so long.

They should have gone back to his flat, but something in him rebelled at the idea. He wasn’t sure if it was that Joseph had been there had tainted it, or that being a basement reminded him of the cellar. Whatever the reason, he convinced Peter his place was better suited to his convalescence, and Peter didn’t argue. 

He had lived so many places over the years, but when they walked through the door of Peter’s flat Morse finally felt like he was home and safe. It felt like a small sanctuary from the everyday world. They didn’t discuss it. Morse’s unwillingness to return to his own place became one of the many things in their relationship they didn’t need to discuss to _know_. One night, the week after he went back to work, Morse came home to find Peter had collected all his belongings and arranged them in his flat. _Their flat_ now he supposed. He cancelled his own lease the next day.

Dinner with the Thursdays now also included Peter. Morse was glad of the invitation the first time it was extended. It would be one place they could just be together in company and not be judged. Peter tried to object that Morse was their surrogate son so there was no need to include him, but he stood no chance when met with Win Thursday’s indignation at that suggestion. _‘You’re just as much family as Morse is! So I’ll see you again next Friday. Now eat your tea.’_

Later, as they were leaving, Win gathered them both into a hug. She told them how proud she was of ‘her boys’. Morse laughed, used to her mothering by now. Peter was startled, but he smiled the whole way home.

Now and then Morse would catch himself thinking about Joseph. There had been enough evidence at his cottage to convict him of the kidnap and assault of him, but nothing to pin the murder on him. Thursday came to the conclusion that it had to be a paid hit. There was a money trail that tied in with the idea but no hit-man to be found to corroborate it. He would stand trial and go to prison, but not for as long as any of them would like.

Despite that playing on his mind, Morse found himself healing both physically and mentally. His nightmares got worse for a while, and for weeks he couldn’t sleep without the light on. But every time he thought he might fall, every time the darkness got too deep, Peter was there. He never pushed, never judged, never pitied. So things got better. He got better. Morse found that everything was lighter when he was with his love, and when Peter was having a darker time he found strength in being able to return some of the kindness he received

No matter how bad a day they might have, at the end of it there was always the certainty and security of each other’s arms to bring them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are folks. We made it to the end. Hopefully these two can have some peace now. This is all I had planned out for this series so this is it for now, but I'm not promising I'll leave them alone forever. 
> 
> Now I need to finally finish the last bit of the one I've been working on for Hekate since mid-February...
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that has commented or left kudos. You've all given me a bit of happiness in a difficult time. I hope this has brought some happiness or distraction for some of you if you're struggling.  
> Stay safe everyone  
> x♥x


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